Today smells like kites,
mesquite trees, tumbleweeds, my spotting the secret fort,
wrecked within weeks after my treason.
Ice-cream, too. The Dairy Queen man, with his wife and kids,
ordering me a cone, despite my own sundae.
I threw his "gift" away.
And it smells like the rocks that I picked and picked
from our new two-story lot, throwing in paper bags.
Neighbors mocked: "You'll never make a yard!"
I did, we did. Grass grew. And then we moved.
I like the smell of kites in January, a month
used to things still hanging around, useless.
514 W. Rebecca, Iowa Park, Texas
(A photo of the house for sale today --- that big corner lot is where I picked up all the rocks!)
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